Fallen
by Linwe Elendil
Summary: The aftermath of grief leads to unexpected events. Set post-Infinity War. Rated T for mature content, but nothing explicit.


"Fallen" by Linwe Elendil

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I'm just getting a scene out of my system that nudges me every time I hear "Delicate" by Taylor Swift. Which I also don't own.

Takes place just after the events of Infinity War. Contains mild spoilers for that movie and Winter Soldier. Do not read if you haven't seen them! Rated T for innuendo, but no actual smut.

xXx

Natasha Romanov raised an uncertain hand and knocked on the door.

"Come in," said a strained voice from the other side. She stood there for a moment, ready to turn back, but twisted the door handle and pushed her way in before she could change her mind.

Sitting at a white, marble table in one of the Wakandan palace guest rooms was Steve Rogers. And he was drunk. Shutting the door behind her, Natasha joined him at the table, gesturing to the bottle there.

"Something special, I take it?"

"Yeah. T'Challa…" His voice broke for a moment. "He has a… had a…" He stopped, and she put a comforting hand on his arm. He shrugged it away. "He had an increased metabolism like I do, so Shuri would make him something strong. She gave me a bottle."

"Probably thought you could use it."

"She was right." He took a giant pull, draining what was left and swallowing with a wince.

"Are you okay?" Natasha asked, knowing it was a ridiculous question.

He didn't even bother to answer. He didn't need to. The look on his face was enough.

"What're you doing here, Romanov?" He took his time with the sentence, clearly trying to wrap his tongue around it in his inebriated state.

She shrugged.

"Shhhouldn't you be somewhere else? _With_ someone else?"

Her mouth tightened at the implication.

"If that was where I wanted to be, that's where I'd be."

"Done with that one, are you?"

The question stung, and she fought an urge to slap him. But she knew he wasn't thinking clearly.

"He left. He made his choice."

"People leave," he countered.

"Right. And some of them don't come back," she replied. It was too much too soon after losing his best friend, and she knew it. She put her hand on his arm again. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

He abruptly shoved her hand off again. "I don't need your pity."

"That's not why I'm here."

"I don't need your comfort either. I'll be fine."

"That's not why I'm here either."

"Then why _are_ you here, Romanov?"

 _I don't know!_ She wanted to scream it at him, hurl the empty bottle in his face, _do_ something. But she sat there silently, shaking.

He must've noticed, because his tone softened. "If you're not trying to make me feel better, why are you here?"

She sat for a second more, making up her mind. Then she raised her gaze abruptly, fire in her eyes.

"Dammit, Rogers. For someone who claims not to get along with Tony Stark, you're certainly acting like him."

"Excuse me?" There was a slight slur on his 's' again, but it was less pronounced. The stuff must be wearing off already.

"Because… not everything is about YOU." Without another word, she leaned forward and claimed his lips. The kiss stung. She guessed she was tasting some of Shuri's gift, but she wasn't going to let that stop her. Natasha took his lower lip between her teeth and tugged gently as she pulled back.

He looked at her through hazy eyes—whether from shock or a buzz, she couldn't tell. His jaw went slack for a moment, then squared up as he swallowed heavily. It all took a split second. She opened her mouth to say something—though what, she wasn't sure—when his mouth lunged forward to hers, kissing her with a passion and desperation that stole her breath.

After what felt like a heavenly eternity of lips and tongues clashing, he pulled back from her abruptly. They were both breathless, but his face had settled into that damned stone mask that she always found impossible to read. He must've gotten good at that in WWII.

"Are you trying to take advantage of me, Romanov?"

She almost smiled. "Yes. But there's no need for you to play the drunken innocent. Your breath doesn't smell like alcohol anymore."

The corners of his mouth turned down just enough to tell her that he must be in emotional agony.

"It didn't last long."

"I know," she replied sympathetically. "But I can think of something else that might." Without a word of warning, she straddled his massive thighs, placing her hands lightly on his chest. She didn't want to scare him away.

He cleared his throat. "Assuming that I don't, uh…"

"Detonate early?" She did smile this time, one eyebrow arching upward.

"Something like that."

Natasha let one hand drift up his suit to his neck. Her fingers found his hair and ran through it experimentally.

"We'll figure it out."

He looked unsure, and she scooted farther up his legs.

"Natasha…"

She couldn't tell if the growl was a warning or a sign of desire, so she stayed still, looking in his eyes. Though his face was still a mask, his irises had become swirling pools of deep blue. She could drown in those eyes, she realized.

"I don't know if I'm ready for this."

His voice was quiet now—holding the insecurity and innocence he rarely showed. More than anything else he had done so far, this simple sentence was the most intimate.

"Whether you can, or whether you can't, it's okay," she whispered just as simply in return.

After a moment frozen in eternity, he leaned forward and kissed her again. This time it was soft—warm. She returned it the same way, running her fingers gently through his hair. His hands found her hips, and he slowly pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her waist and holding her to his chest as the kiss went on.

Her other arm draped over his shoulders. Natasha was surprised to feel tears running down her cheeks and pulled back to make sure he was all right. She was even more surprised to realize that the tears were her own. He reached one hand up to brush them tenderly away.

"That bad, huh?"

She laughed softly at the remembered conversation in a stolen truck, shaking her head as she tried to define her feelings. "No. That good. Not that you should go getting a big head over it or anything…"

He smiled briefly.

"But you… You don't want anything from me."

"Um…"

She gave him a sly smile before becoming serious again. "I mean, this isn't a means to an end. This isn't manipulation or coercion. It's not an interrogation."

His eyebrows raised. "Do you often interrogate people this way?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "Not often, but sometimes. Sex can be a very effective weapon." She paused. "But that's not what this is. It's a… release."

"It's comfort," he said softly.

She nodded, and her tears stopped. He wiped the rest of them away, looking at her frankly. She felt exposed under his gaze. More so than when she'd dumped her past on the internet with Shield's files. For the whole world to see.

His hand rested on her cheek, stroking it lightly with his thumb. "We need this," he said.

It wasn't a question. She nodded in agreement.

He stayed still a moment longer. Then, with a decisive nod, he stood, shifting her off his lap, and carried her to his bed. Laying her in the center of it, he stretched himself over the top of her small frame. Though he was clearly trying not to crush her under his weight, there were bits of his suit that dug uncomfortably into her. But she didn't complain—she planned to have him out of it soon enough. Bringing her hand back up to the back of his neck, Natasha looked again into those stormy eyes before pulling him down into another kiss.

They were done talking.

xXx

The end! Reviews would be greatly appreciated, as I've never written anything for Marvel characters before!


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